


Ain't a Rule (That Ain't Worth Breaking)

by SummerFrost



Series: Prompt Ficlets! [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Coming Out, Kent calls himself a sexual slur, M/M, Prompt Fic, canon-typical alcohol use, explicit discussions of sex but no actual explicit sex, oh and there's some dancing, past zimbits, things are kind of a mess whoops, with very small hints of future pb&j if you kinda squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 02:38:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8310661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerFrost/pseuds/SummerFrost
Summary: Kent is tired of being in the closet; Bitty helps him cause a scandal.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alpha_exodus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_exodus/gifts).



> The prompt: give me a pairing and I'll put my iPod on shuffle and write a ficlet based on the first song I hear. The lovely omgpb&j asked for bittyparse and Rhapsody gave me [Kerosene by Miranda Lambert,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rB7ONnfIjaI) and here we are!
> 
> Thanks to shipped-goldstandard for the cheerreading <3
> 
> (Title also from Kerosene)

Bitty spins his vodka cranberry around in his hands; it’s the kind of drink the boys would probably chirp him for, but he’s a little beyond caring about appearances at this point. He’s on his second drink of the night, but it’s done nothing to improve his mood, and he’s nearly at the tipping point of bitter enough to get the bartender to switch the TVs off of NHL highlights. If he wanted to hear one more word about his ex-boyfriend winning the Stanley Cup, he’d turn his phone back on.

So yeah, he’s about to flag the bartender down and become the ultimate Petty Gay when literally the only thing that could make this night worse happens: Kent Parson plops down into the stool next to him and opens his stupid, pretty mouth.

“Thought you’d be out celebrating with our boy,” Parse muses, with less venom than expected, which honestly just makes Bitty bristle more. “Bittle, right?”

“He’s not _your_ boy,” Bitty snaps. He’s got more on the tip of his tongue, but Parse waves the bartender over and orders tequila shots— _two_ of them, because apparently this conversation is going to be a thing—and a margarita for good measure. The bartender wanders off and Bitty still finds himself adding, “And he’s not—he’s not mine either, anymore, I guess.”

“That sucks.” Parse almost sounds sincere. He holds up his shot glass in invitation; Bitty clinks his own against it and drinks. “What happened?”

Bitty shrugs and swallows down a gulp of his drink to chase the tequila. “I—dunno. Kinda figured it was your fault, actually, but you’re here at this bar same as me, so—.”

Watching Jack “We Only Hooked Up a Few Times in Juniors and Also I’m a Liar” Zimmermann play a seven game series against his ex hadn’t exactly been a great time for anyone involved, and the secrets that came out definitely weren’t what he’d agreed to spend the summer up North for. But Bitty—well, he obviously hadn’t thought things were getting bad enough for Jack to leave. And if Jack hadn’t left him _for_ Parse, then—that means Jack just _left._ He hasn’t decided which one is worse quite yet.

Parse hums a little and then confirms, “Yup,” popping the ‘p’ loud and hard, like an asshole.

Bitty doesn’t offer up any further commentary, so they fall into a silence that feels—well, not awkward, actually, which is surprising—just anticipatory.

Which is apparently because Parse is about to suggest, “Wanna get shit-faced and go dancing?”

Bitty downs the rest of his drink and looks over at Parse, who’s sipping his margarita innocently as can be, gray eyes bright in the low light.

“Sure,” Bitty answers. _Why the fuck not._

 

~*~

 

Parse lets Bitty pick the club, which is—pretty unexpected; Bitty had figured Parse would know some exclusive, employees-sign-NDAs kind of place that guarantees discretion. But instead they wind up at the less-gay of the two gay bars Bitty knows in Providence—the one Jack could be seen in, even though going out clubbing wasn’t really his style and he only went a handful of times to indulge Bitty and—okay, no, Bitty’s not going to start thinking about Jack again.

Not when Kent Parson is buying them the most ridiculous looking shooters Bitty’s ever seen and winking when he licks his lips after downing his own. It’s the kind of thing that’s pretty high on the list of competent distractions.

Pretty soon stage one (get shit-faced) is complete and Parse is dragging Bitty onto the dance floor, hands all over his body, teasing fingers trailing along Bitty’s sides while he pulls Bitty close and plasters himself against him.

Bitty can feel every inch of Parse’s chest and abs against his back, the way the muscles ripple as they dance, can feel the hot grip of fingers on his hips and the line of a half-hard cock on his ass. They’re both starting to sweat from the effort and Bitty feels that too, the perfect hot stick of skin when his head lolls back and his cheek presses up against Parse’s neck.

Bitty can hear the low murmur of Parse’s voice in his ear, whispering filthy things that would be scandalous between the sheets in a hotel room, let alone on a dance floor. _Your ass feels so good on my dick, Bittle. I’d fuck it so good, baby, make you forget everyone else who’s been in it. Bet you’d look so pretty like that, all fucked-out with my come all over you. God, fuck, you move so well maybe you should ride me. Fuck yourself on my dick, use it however you want. You wanna use me, don’t you?_ And yeah, Bitty fucking does. He grinds back harder and winds an arm around Parse’s neck pulls his face in closer so it’s like he’s drinking the words, their lips nearly brushing. And he could stay like this forever maybe, except—

Except Bitty can see the people staring. No one’s put it all the way together, yet, but this club is playing NHL highlights too, and pretty soon someone’s going to figure out that the messy-haired blond guy grinding up on some twink doesn’t just _look_ like Kent Parson. So Bitty pulls away and turns to look at Parse, wobbling a little on his feet and leaning, weak-willed, into the touch when Parse grabs his hips again to steady him. “We should—we should stop,” he protests, tilting his head towards the bar, “people’ll notice you.”

Parse smirks and pulls Bitty in close so that their hips and thighs are flush again, leaning in to brush his lips against Bitty’s ear. He smells like musk and not enough alcohol. “What if I want them to notice?” he purrs, and nips at Bitty’s earlobe being pulling away.

“Um,” Bitty stammers, “what?” A hand slips off his hip and back, tracing over his ass and squeezing. He jumps and swats at Parse’s chest.

Parse doesn’t move his hand away, doesn’t stop lightly grinding against Bitty while they talk, but his face is marginally more serious than before. “Look, cards on the table, Bittle?”

“You can call me Bitty,” he points out wryly, “You’ve told me where you want my dick. We’re there.”

“Point. So look, Bits—I’ve been trying to come out for fucking years.” Parse runs a hand through his hair and squeezes his eyes shut. For that one second, he almost looks—vulnerable. Tired. His eyes blink open and it passes. “And they won’t let me.”

Bitty frowns. “I’m not sure I—who won’t?”

Parse rolls his eyes like it’s obvious, and Bitty’s a little too drunk to be genuinely offended, but he huffs at him anyway. “Like, _everyone._ PR, my agent—it’s never ‘the right time.’ They said—,” he snorts derisively, “they said maybe if I won the Cup tonight. Like it’s—like I lose my gay privileges if I’m not winning hard enough, or something, the fuckers. And I’m so—,” and the look is back now, the lines around his face and the little tremor in his lips, “I’m so fucking tired, Bits.”

Bitty doesn’t even like Kent Parson. Or, if someone asked, that’d be what he said. But right now, on this sticky dance floor with the music too loud and the taste of overpriced liquor still on his tongue, he’d probably kill for him.

“So what d’you wanna do?”

Parse smirks and his eyes glint and Bitty is reminded, inexplicably, of how it feels the moment before he hits the ice after a check. Leaning in close, Parse whispers in what may be a threat, or a promise, “I’m gonna burn this fucker to the ground.”

 

~*~

 

They’re sitting at the bar now, because as great as the dancing was Bitty wanted a _little_ more concentration while they talked about this, thank you very much. So Parse is spinning the little straw in Bitty’s drink around while Bitty gets clarification on a couple things.

“Aren’t you worried about your career?”

Parse laughs. “I’ve got three years left in my contract with a no-trade clause and, believe it or not, there’s not actually a loophole in it that lets them fire me for being slutty and gay. Plus, my team’s got my back.”

Bitty rolls his eyes. “And after that?”

“Figure by then shit’ll have blown over. There’s gotta be at least one team that’ll pick me up. I’ve got a buddy on the Schooners who says the climate’s pretty good there.”

“You’ve, um, actually thought about this.”

Parse smirks and steals a sip of Bitty’s drink, even though he’s got his own right in front of him. Bitty goes to swat him away, but Parse catches his hand instead and holds it, tracing little lines across his palm. “I should prob’ly be offended you’re surprised.”

Bitty tugs his hand away and steals Parse’s margarita. “Are you?” He takes a sip and scrunches up his nose—of _course_ Parse ordered a double.

“You’re too cute to get mad at,” Parse comments mildly, and Bitty blushes into his drink.

He looks up and finds Parse watching him. The adrenaline is sort of wearing off at this point, leaving Bitty with a little too much awareness of what he’s about to be complicit in. “So…we’re gonna do this, then?”

“Yeah, we are.” Parse blows a stream of air out of his nose and scrubs at his face. He grabs for Bitty’s hand again. Bitty lets him. “Look, you seem—you’re—you seem like a classy guy, Bits. And this is gonna be—sloppy. And I don’t want—I gotta know I’m not dragging you into shit you’ll regret.”

And, okay. It’s not that Parse doesn’t have a point, but—Bitty came out to his parents over winter break, and it went well—almost scary well, if he’s being honest with himself, and the SMH will always have his back, and—it’s not like there’s anyone else who should matter, anymore.

So he slips off his barstool and steps in close, between Parse’s legs, sliding his hands up under his shirt and shivering when Parse automatically grips his hips again. “I blew past classy ‘bout three drinks ago. Let’s get you a scandal, sweetheart.”

 

~*~

 

It’s a little past eleven AM the next morning when they get the courage to pull out Kent’s laptop and face the gossip mills; Kent let his phone die overnight and Bitty’s has been off since before the game even started last night, so they’re walking in completely blind.

Kent whistles as he scrolls through the Buzzfeed compilation. “At least this dude got my good side.” In the photo, he’s got Bitty pinned up against the wall outside of some club with his legs around his waist, while Bitty sucks either hickey three or four—it’s hard to remember—into his neck.

“You don’t have a good side,” Bitty chirps with a snort, and Kent playfully bites his shoulder in retaliation.

“’Cause all of me is so handsome, right?” Kent is smirking, mussed hair flopping into his face, the lines of his naked muscles nearly glimmering in the morning light. He’s—well, he’s fucking beautiful, and funny, and he makes Bitty feel special in a way he forgot he needed and Bitty—he doesn’t know how to say any of it. Not like this.

“Sure, hun,” he agrees instead, and sinks down to rest his head against Kent’s chest.

They scroll through a couple articles, carefully ignoring the ones that look particularly gross, while Bitty fidgets with his phone in his hands. No one online’s figured out who he is, but he’s sure his friends have seen and it’s only a matter of time before someone from Samwell who recognizes him is willing to leak it.

“Do you—um,” he starts, suddenly self-conscious, “do you need to get goin’ soon?”

Kent turns to him in surprise and sets his computer on the ground. “Uh, not really? Why—,” he smirks again and trails his fingers along the outside of Bitty’s thigh, clearly trying to lighten the mood back up, “ready for round three?”

Bitty shivers despite himself. “Um, no, I—um, sorry—I just—,” he looks down at the blank phone in his hands, “don’t know if I wanna be alone when I turn this on.”

The hand on his leg goes up to his face, cups his cheek and turns his head so that he’s looking right at Kent. The sun’s turned his eyes pale blue, with slivers of green flecking in like he’s borrowed them from someone else. “I’m here, Bits.”

Nodding, Bitty takes a deep breath, and presses down the power button. His phone blinks to life, and there’s a moment before the connection solidifies where he can hold the air in his lungs and pretend nothing’s going to happen, that nothing’s—

The buzzing starts and notifications pile in. There are over 500 messages in the group chat, but that’s including the game, and private messages from Lardo starting this morning, and two missed calls from his mother—that’s _not_ encouraging—and—shit.

There’s a small mountain of texts from Jack and five missed calls.

Kent must see, but he doesn’t say anything, just pulls Bitty in closer and hooks his chin over his shoulder while he taps on his text inbox and hovers over the conversations with trembling fingers.

He starts with Lardo, because he figures that should be the easiest. He’s wrong.

**_Lardo (9:03 am):_ ** _Bits holy shit?! What happened?_

**_Lardo (9:07 am):_ ** _I mean I can SEE what happened but dude_

**_Lardo (9:32 am):_ ** _Bitty call me when you get this_

**_Lardo (9:35 am):_ ** _Jack keeps calling me I don’t know what to say to him_

**_Lardo (9:47 am):_ ** _look not to be totally unchill but CLAL ME_

**_Lardo (10:39 am):_ ** _JACK IS AT THE HOUSE COME HOME_

Fuck. Bitty looks up at Kent, who’s making a pretty good effort towards keeping his expression neutral. “Fuck,” he says out loud, for good measure.

“Yeah,” Kent agrees, “fuck.”

They stare at the messages together like maybe they’ll change.

They don’t, and Kent says, “You should—,” at the same time Bitty tells him, “I don’t have to go.”

“Bits—,”

“Kent—,”

“Look, I gotta deal with the PR clusterfuck now anyway and like—you don’t wanna be here for that.” Kent presses a kiss to Bitty’s temple. “I can handle it, promise.”

Bitty looks down at his phone and back up at Kent, worrying at his lip while he thinks. “I—I don’t regret this,” he says, because if there’s one thing he needs him to know, it’s that. “I don’t regret you.”

Kent smiles, bright and sad all at once, blue eyes crinkling at the edges like he even means it. “Me neither, Bits.” He stands, and snags his boxers from under the bed. “Now go get our boy.”

Fumbling to slip back into his clothes, Bitty rolls his eyes and bites his tongue. “Come walk me out. Make ‘em think you’re a gentleman.”

“I’m a perfect fucking gentleman, thank you very much.”

They bicker good-naturedly down the hallway and in the elevator, and Bitty—he doesn’t want to go, he realizes, and it’s probably the scariest thought he’s had all morning. So he clings to Kent outside the hotel and manages to only feel a little bad about it when he whispers as much under his breath.

“Look, Bitty, I—I’m not trying to make you take him back or—yeah. But I’ve been on the other side of vanishing and it—no one fucking deserves that, okay?” Kent is clutching at Bitty too, hands tender at his waist in a way that could be for the whispering fans snapping pictures across the street, but—Bitty knows it isn’t, somehow. “So like, at least answer Jack’s calls, okay? Just—maybe answer mine too.”

Kent’s thumb traces little lines across Bitty’s wrist, playing over the pulse point for fleeting moments. He leans down and Bitty tilts up and they kiss, soft and a little hungry and not as much like goodbye as he’d been expecting.

“I will,” he promises, letting his fingers catch against Kent’s wrists as he pulls away. Kent goes to leave, but he turns with his hand catching on the door when Bitty calls out to him, “And Kenny? Light ‘em up.”

Kent grins. The door swings shut.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me on [Tumblr! <3 ](http://yoursummerfrost.tumblr.com/)


End file.
